Master and Servant
by whodreamedit
Summary: Set post 'Open House' with spoilers up to and including Ep7.  Tate made Violet to promise not to cut herself again.  But what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?  What Violet doesn't realise is that Tate takes promises very, very seriously.


Violet didn't like to break promises. Not to people she cared about, at least; it didn't count if she _promised_to load the dishwasher, for example. Or if she _promised_her mom she'd be home before ten. Those were bullshit promises that she was all but expected to break. She wouldn't be fulfilling her role as a teenager if she didn't.

But when she'd promised Tate she wouldn't cut herself again, she'd meant it. She'd been surprised that he'd asked, sure. It hadn't made sense to her at all…he'd done it himself, after all. She'd thought he understood. She'd thought he'd know better than to ask her to deprive herself of the one thing that was stopping her from going absolutely insane. But she'd said yes. It occurred to her later, after she'd had that delightful moment of mother/daughter bonding with Vivien, that she probably would agree to do whatever Tate asked of her. She hadn't even thought about it. Her mouth had formed the words before her brain had even properly processed the request.

And now, a few days later, sitting in her room in the middle of the night, totally unable to sleep in case she woke up with a bloody, deformed, ghostly face in front of her, she was _pissed__off_about it.

How fucking dare Tate ask her to quit doing the one thing that made her feel in control? It was _her_body, not his. _Her_blood. He kept talking about how he didn't want anything to hurt her…but what if she _wanted_to be hurt?

She hadn't seen him in two days. She knew it wasn't long, but it felt like it. The hours stretched out forever, like one of Dali's melting clocks. She was pissed off about _that,_too. Annoyed that she just had to wait until he decided to show up. If Constance was to be believed, it wasn't as though he had a particularly hectic schedule. He was a fucking _ghost_.

And she wasn't dealing with that. Not at all.

She reached over to her night-stand, pulling the fresh razorblade out from between the pages of Sylvia Plath's _The__Bell__Jar._It had seemed like an appropriate hiding place. She smirked, amused by her own in-joke, and rolled up the sleeve of her sweater. The scars from her previous cuts had mostly healed – nothing but small white marks from the older ones, and the remains of a shiny red scab from the last one. She was about to bring it down on her skin, when she stopped…

Tate would see, if she did it on her arm again. He'd notice. And as much as she was annoyed at him for trying to control her, she didn't want him to be pissed off at her. Guiltily, she rolled her sleeve down again.

She'd have to do it somewhere else. Somewhere he wouldn't see.

Casting a quick look around the room (just in case), Violet pulled off her sweater. It was a little cold in just her t-shirt, and she glanced down at herself thoughtfully. Where was the best place? He'd notice anywhere on her upper body, for sure. And her stomach seemed…wrong, somehow. Too soft, Too painful, if she went too deep.

Her legs. He wouldn't notice, if she did it on her legs. It was the middle of winter – she was hardly going to be running around in anything cut above the knee. Half-smiling to herself, Violet wriggled out of her pajama bottoms, kicking them to the floor. Her upper thighs were slender, pale, unscarred. It was perfect. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before.

She pressed the blade down into her flesh, hard. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes intent on the dimple the blade had made in her skin. A tiny droplet of blood was already forming around the razor, where she'd pressed the tip into her flesh. Her heart-rate climbed as she readied herself to pull the sharp edge across her skin.

"Violet."

She was so startled she dropped the blade. She jerked her head up. Tate stood at the end of her bed, his hands in his pockets, his face ashen.

"You promised me, Vi."

The tiny blot of blood slid down her bare leg and onto the bedspread. Her hands were shaking as she reached over the edge of the bed for her pants.

But she was angry. Still. How dare he just _appear_like that, after days of **nothing**?

"_So_?" she replied, taking her eyes off him for a moment to scan the floor for her pajama pants. It was difficult to see, in the dim light of the room.

"**So**you shouldn't break a promise." Tate was there, suddenly – his hands gripping her wrists. She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Tate…come on. Let me go…"

Tate shook his head slowly. His eyes shone in the half-light – was he really that upset that she'd cut herself again? He looked profoundly disappointed; like a child who had been told the trip to Disneyland had been cancelled.

"You don't get it, Vi. You don't just _break_a promise when you _care_about someone, okay?" his grip on her wrists tightened as he looked down at her.

Violet swallowed heavily.

"You shouldn't have asked me to do it. It wasn't fair. You said you _knew__how__I__felt_."

Tate shifted so that he was sitting on the bed in front of her, her wrists still clasped firmly in his hands. He broke eye-contact for a moment, glancing down at the small cut on her thigh, his gaze moving upward to the space between her legs.

"Nice panties." He smirked.

Violet's cheeks burned as she tried to tug her hands free of his grip.

"Yeah, very funny. Now quit fucking around."

Tate let her hands go, but his expression clouded over again. He watched her for a few moments in silence.

"We have to be able to trust each other, Vi." he mumbled. "Otherwise it won't work. I have to know you mean it, when you tell me something."

"Okay well…I'm sorry, alright?" Violet was beginning to feel awkward. The combination of being half-naked and having been caught doing something she knew she shouldn't was too much to handle, on top of everything else. Conflicting emotions waged war against each other inside her head. She needed a cigarette. "Look, can we just forget about it?"

"Forget about it!" Tate stared at her, his brow furrowed. "No! Of course we can't _forget__about__it_. That's not how life works, Vi. You can't just break someone's trust, violate the bond you share with someone and expect everything to be fine and _fucking_dandy!" he stood up suddenly, running his fingers through his hair. "I should go…I should just go…"

"No!" Violet reached a hand out to him, as if to stop him. "Tate, don't." she couldn't stand it if he disappeared again…not after this conversation. What if he never came back? She had no idea how this shit even worked. Where he went, when he wasn't with her. Whether he could even control when he appeared, or where. Her bottom lip trembled. She wouldn't cry. She _would__not_cry. "What do I have to do! Tell me what I can do to make this okay. I'll do it."

Tate turned to face her. His expression was earnest.

"You have to see that what you did was wrong, Vi." The corners of his mouth twitched up, just for a moment. A sly smile. "I need to know you won't do it again."

Violet looked up at him, blankly. Something about his tone was making her nervous, but she couldn't quite tell if it was in fear or excitement.

He sat down on the bed again, not breaking her gaze.

"Lie down on your stomach." He ordered.

"What!" Violet raised her eyebrows, a laugh bubbling up, unbidden.

"Do it."

Hesitantly, Violet moved to lie down on the mattress. She glanced over her shoulder at him, awkwardly.

"Tate, what the fuck?"

"You said you'd do anything."

She couldn't see him, now. But she felt his weight shift, one knee coming to rest either side of her body. Her heart rate was speeding up again. Damn, this was intense. She squeezed her eyes shut, not sure what to expect. She trusted Tate. She trusted him absolutely. He wouldn't hurt her. He'd never, ever hurt her.

Tate raised his hand and brought it down, open palmed, on the swell of Violet's ass. It wasn't that hard, really, but the shock of it – the sound, more than anything – made Violet's eyes snap open again. She let out a small gasp that, inexplicably, became a giggle.

She craned her neck, trying to see over her shoulder to look at him.

"Dude, are you _spanking_me?"

Her answer was a swift, hard secondary slap that left her ass cheek stinging. She inhaled sharply, the laughter dying away.

"Yeah, not so funny now, is it?" Tate hissed, leaning forward to position himself over her, one hand either side of her head. "You fucked up, Vi. And bad girls need to be punished."

Violet made a soft sound in the back of her throat – neither an agreement nor a disagreement. She could feel the weight of him above her, the head of his breath on the back of her neck. She should be scared. This wasn't the Tate she knew. This Tate was unpredictable, erratic – more like the guy who'd scared the shit out of Leah in the basement (and taken immense pleasure in doing so). But she wasn't afraid. Her heart beat hard in her chest. She balled her hands into fists around the bedsheets, her skin prickling in anticipation.

Tate rocked back on his heels, looking down at her. Violet was always beautiful – but there was something about her like this. The brave, smart-mouthed little girl, face-down on the mattress.

He raised his hand again, bringing it down hard on her ass – then again, again, a fourth time in quick succession, each slap echoing louder around the otherwise silent room. Violet cried out, tightening her grip on the bed-sheets. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to make no sound.

"You. Have. To. Keep. Your. Promises." Tate punctuated every word with another slap, harder, harder. He wondered what Violet's skin looked like, underneath the thin material of her panties. He bit his bottom lip, the blood pumping faster in his veins just thinking about it. It had to be pretty red by now. Bruised, maybe. Shit. Shit shit shit.

Violet could feel her eyes watering. She whimpered softly.

Tate stopped, suddenly. He leaned back down over Violet, resting his arms by her shoulders, his lower body pressing down against her. Violet could feel him, hard against her ass. She wanted to roll over – to kiss him, pull him down against her, take control of this situation somehow. She wanted him so badly that she wanted to cry. But she couldn't move.

"What have we learned?" Tate purred into her ear, his lips brushing her neck.

Violet breathed out, heavily. The space between her legs was warm and wet.

"Don't ever break promises." She whispered.

"That's right." Tate replied, softly. He brushed his lips against the tender spot just beneath her ear lobe, kissing her neck lightly. "You never break a promise to someone you love, Vi. Not ever."


End file.
